


hope for the hopeless

by Antarktica



Category: Upstairs Downstairs (2011)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, F/F, Female Relationships, Friendship, Romance, post-s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 13:03:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antarktica/pseuds/Antarktica
Summary: Blanche Mottershead knows many things. Beyond the realms of undiscovered artefacts and the dust and the rocks they’re buried in. So, it is only proper, she knows that she could only be Agnes’ rock as the other had been for her on her own trying times. Because she remembers looking like that.





	hope for the hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> Set are the Pleiades; the Moon is down  
> And midnight dark on high.  
> The hours, the hours, drift by,  
> And here I lie,  
> Alone
> 
> —Sappho “Loneliness”

        There’s an unmistakable sadness in Agnes’ eyes that Blanche picked up on recently. She notices and pays enough attention to gauge Agnes’ mood whenever she walks into the room. She knows when the other would sit on the study and read, and when it would be a great time to hand her a glass of whiskey, no matter what time of the day it is. Blanche can never blame Agnes for the sadness that lurks beneath her façade. Her sister committed suicide and her marriage was ruined, beyond repair, only a legal document now

        However, Blanche will blame herself if she lets Agnes venture deeper into destruction in these dark times. So she distracts her from it--she had stayed for Agnes to make sure she takes care of herself after all—often dragging Agnes to the museum and simply talking. About the Egyptians. Making Agnes remember the happy times of her life. Occasionally telling her how wonderful she is—Blanche sees the sadness passing away, even for few short moments, for it haunts Agnes in between walks from an exhibit to another.

        The urge to get rid of it is overwhelming to Blanche. It stains Agnes beautiful face, creates unnecessary wrinkles and creases on her forehead and Blanche finds it distasteful and feels slight scornful towards Hallam for he had caused all this (at least a part of it). Now he’s hiding away in Buckingham Palace. _Men_ , Blanche sighs. They think women are some sort of comfort, to serve them, to be their companion-but Blanche always thought otherwise.

        There’s always been that endearing quality about women that men can never break as long as they go on with their faux masculinity and petty prejudices. They think women dress for them—the men. Blanche often found herself rolling her eyes at that. Such thought was incredibly preposterous, at least for her, which is why they’re a tad tight-lipped around her. Afraid of her knowledge, of her peculiar candor, that Maud finds quite disagreeable yet also agreeable. Blanche thinks a lot would benefit if the world would choose to zip its mouth if its only purpose is to spat prejudices towards their own.

        Blanche Mottershead knows many things. Beyond the realms of undiscovered artefacts and the dust and the rocks they’re buried in. So, it is only proper, she knows that she could only be Agnes’ rock as the other had been for her on her own trying times. Because she remembers looking like that.

        Forlorn. Towards a long-lost and a beloved. It’s often what happens to the left besotted. The one who’d thought better to care and not to hate. She’d seen Agnes façade crumble, perhaps, she had imagined Agnes saw Persie’s body lying down the hall. Blanche remembers helping her up, taking her to her room and cradling her sobs and cries of how life is unfair.

        One morning, Agnes drags herself into the study, smelling of alcohol, and stumbles on the way in and Blanche was thankful she was alert enough to help her. When Agnes was settled, she goes back to her work. Observing the other occupant of the room, in this case. Hangover. She apparently drank herself to oblivion, much to Blanche’s dismay. So the archaeologist gets up, sets down an aspirin and a cup of water for her friend.

        Blanche returns to her seat and pays limited attention to the book she was reading, glasses perched on her nose, often wrinkling when coming across something interesting. Her mind thinks otherwise and digresses when a phrase about blaming comes up. She opts it best to not look for someone to blame now but whenever she closes her eyes and thinks of whom caused such distress within Agnes, her unfortunate nephew’s face pops into her head and it’s absolutely unbearable.

        Blanche is glad that she accepts it. It doesn’t take long before life is back on Agnes’ face. She smiles a ‘thank you’ to Blanche, which she reciprocates. Agnes deserves so much and she does not realize one bit of it.

        “I wouldn’t really know that, Blanche.” It’s only when Agnes responds she realizes she said those words out loud.

        There’s no shame in it, Blanche tells herself, but she really wanted that thought to herself alone.

        Blanche shuts her book and looks at Agnes, who sat on the other couch, idle and still out of her depths. “I’ll make sure to inform you of it _every waking day_.” A response which makes the other smile a little bit more. (Blanche loved seeing Agnes smile, it shines a light on days she feels rather knocked out from seeing piles of letters from people wanting to enter England and think that those piles may be the same volume as the dead bodies lying around in this kind of war.)

        She intends to make a point of this and walks to where Agnes is saddled, leaning down before her and taking her hand in hers.

        “You deserve to be happy, to be able to live despite what has transpired. You deserve to be happy solely because you’re Lady Agnes Holland, perhaps the most wonderful, amazing and particularly beautiful woman I ever had the chance to associate myself with.”

        Even Blanche herself is taken in surprise with the words that escaped her mouth—as much as Agnes was. Certainly, she could have worded it in a tame manner but slipping into extravagance seemed to be the theme of the day. Not saying that Agnes was anything less than what was said but, perhaps, she should’ve exerted a little bit more control.

        But Agnes was polite, proper and _perfect_. She accepts the sincerity of Blanche and does not attempt to shove it away.

        Agnes smiled. “You always had a way of lifting my spirits, Blanche, and I thank you for that.” And squeezes her hand. Blanche reciprocates the gesture, smiling and then letting go to go back to her business. If her peripheral vision wasn’t fooling her, she’d swear on her artefacts that Agnes’ smile dropped and her eyes turn lonely than it is sad, but Blanche ignores it—because there’s no road to cross beyond this line.

        She’ll make do with this. The loving aunt. The caring friend. The reliable rock. As long as the day that Agnes becomes happy again arrives, Blanche will be happy and she’ll hide whatever feelings she may have in order not to lose this friendship and break the foundation and support they built for each other.

_This is enough._

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently finished watching Upstairs Downstairs. And it's more like Upset why did they not renew this show for season 3-- to me. So as my mum liked to call this, 'frustrated writing because the show she just watched got cancelled', here's a little bit of my take on Agnes and Blanche post-s2 with a pinch of angst.
> 
> Hope you like it! I hope to write more of them since they're so fascinating to write.


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